Trope Bingo Ficlet Collection
by MsBarrows
Summary: A collection of short ficlets based on a trope bingo card. Twenty five different tropes and up to twenty different characters in total. Each chapter is a separate ficlet based on one trope and character combination. Complete card can be seen on my Tumblr and AO3.
1. Animal Transformation - Jowan and Varric

**Square #9 - Animal Transformation – Jowan/Varric**

He was used to mabari; even if he'd never met Hawke and his brother and his dog, there were enough other Fereldans living in Kirkwall that he'd have made their acquaintance anyway. As it was he sometimes made it rather more closely then he might have liked, there being several street gangs who weren't at all leery of setting the big dogs onto other men. He knew them well enough to know that the Fereldans weren't exaggerating, or at least weren't exaggerating very much, when they spoke of how smart they were, and of their ability to understand what was said to them. About like a very bright child, really, as far as he could tell.

This one... this one, he suspected, understood even more than the average mabari. The way it watched him was rather creepily intense, though that might just have been the effect of its pale grey eyes against its heavy black coat.

"Err... good boy," he said, and started to edge sideways along the wall at his back. The faintest of rumbles escaped its mouth, one paw half-lifting from the ground. He froze again. "I know this looks bad," he said to the beast. "An armed dwarf, poking around somewhere he has no right to be. You're right to be suspicious. But surely it won't harm either of us if you just let me leave, right? Right."

The dog snorted, a sound heavy with disbelief.

Varric sighed. "Look, what if I promised to give you a steak if you let me go? A nice juicy one, at least an inch thick. Raw, cooked, whatever way you want it. Hrmm?"

The dog sat down and yawned, displaying an impressive array of teeth, before fixing its gaze on Varric once again. Varric sighed. "Not going to let me leave, are you?"

To his surprise, the dog actually shook its head to that, then panted, lips lifting in what looked suspiciously like a smile. Varric cursed. "Mind if I at least sit down then?" he asked, and when the mabari made no objection, carefully lowered himself to the floor. He sat studying the dog for a while, then absentmindedly reached for a pocket. The mabari tensed and growled again. He hastily held his hands up. "Just reaching for a notepad and a pen, I promise. I'm a writer, and I just had a thought I'd really like to not down before I forget it."

The mabari tilted it's head to one side, as if thinking, then rose to its feet and moved forward, massive head lowering as it sniffed at his pockets. He held very still, knowing just how much damage the beasts were capable of when roused, then backed off to its previous spot, giving its tail a brief wag before resuming its seat.

"It's all right with you then?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. The dog's tail thumped once against the floor. Moving very slowly and cautiously, and keeping an eye on the mabari in case it changed its mind, he took out his pad and pen and the well-corked bottle of ink, carefully worked the cork free and set the bottle down beside him, then dipped his pen, and began scribbling notes into his book, very aware at first of the dog still watching him, and then after a while forgetting its presence, caught up in the story unfolding under his pen. Only when a heavy weight leaned unexpectedly against his arm did he stop, realizing that the dog had moved around to where it could see what he was writing, and was peering down at the page with every indication of actually _reading_ the words written there.

Varric's mouth went dry. "You're not just any mabari, are you?" he asked softly.

It turned its head, its nose just inches from his, the look it gave him one that he could only describe as thoughtful. Then it _shrugged_, and there was an odd impression of its fur sliding in one direction and its body stretching oddly, proportions changing in some smooth progression from squat and bulky to small and slender, and suddenly the mabari was gone.

Varric could only stare, knowing he was open-mouthed in astonishment as he looked at the man – the mage – now seated in its place, amused grey eyes watching him from behind a shaggy fall of thick black hair. The man grinned, then pointed at the notebook still held forgotten in Varric's hand. "You misspelled 'threnody', it's only one n," he pointed out.

Varric looked down at the page, and blinked. "So I did," he agreed, voice still faint with shock, and automatically scratched through the extra letter before frowning at the man. "Who _are_ you?" he asked. "I can guess you're a mage... and how'd you ever learn to do _that!?_"

"His name is Jowan," a familiar voice said, causing Varric to start and almost knock over his ink, as Isabela walked into the room from the door he'd been sneaking toward earlier. "And it's a long story, but if you ask nicely, maybe he'll join us for dinner and share it."

Jowan smiled up at Isabela, a warm and friendly smile. "I might," he agreed, and then gave Varric a sly look. "I like my steak well-done," he said, and then rose to his feet.

Varric laughed, and carefully corked and put away his ink and other things before rising as well, accepting Isabela's help in pulling him back to his feet. "I have a feeling a steak is a small price to pay to hear that story," he said, then frowned at Isabela. "And what are _you_ doing here?"

Isabela smiled. "Carrying a message to an old friend. More to the point, what are _you_ doing here?"

Varric made a face. "Following up a lead. Though now I have a feeling I may have been mislead, unless your friend is involved in lyrium smuggling?"

Isabela shook her head, while Jowan's eyebrows rose in mild surprise. "No, I'm pretty certain he isn't," she said. "But come, let's go have dinner, and you can tell us all about it."

"All right. As long as I get to hear Jowan's story. And you're buying your own drinks, Rivain."


	2. Secret Child - Anders, Isabela and Jowan

**Square #14 – Secret Child – Anders/Isabela/Jowan**

Anders was talking with Isabela at the bar, letting her flirt with him while she drank rum as black as tar and as sweet as molasses, and he drank bad tea. At least the water for it had been boiled, which made it reasonably safe to imbibe, though he wished he could have taken her up on her offer of a real drink. Unfortunately while Justice ignored the flirting, it not being anything he particularly understood, he was dead set against any real drinking.

Her face went very still all of a sudden, eyes widening as she stared at something behind him, ignoring his witty comeback to her latest remark. He would even have said that she paled, the blood draining from her face, though he wondered if that was the right word to use for someone whose skin was never truly pale. He turned to look, not sure what he'd see – another Qunari invasion, perhaps, or a talking darkspawn, something frightening or shocking enough to draw such a strong reaction from her.

There was nothing particularly noteworthy there, nothing but a dark-haired man standing just inside the door, a sleeping toddler held in his arms, looking around the room with a faintly worried expression on his face. An expression that changed as he turned his head, looking past Anders, and smiled in relief before hurrying over to join the pair of them at the bar.

"Isabela, I'm so glad I finally found you..." the man began, only to be cut off by Isabela.

"Not here, Levyn," Isabela said sharply, eyes darting around the room as if to see who had taken any notice of their meeting. "Upstairs."

Anders didn't know if she meant to include him in that instruction or not; probably not, but he was too curious to stay where he was, and besides, there was something oddly familiar about the man. He barely hesitated before trailing off after the pair, upstairs and into Isabela's room. She scowled when she saw he had followed, then shut the door with him inside anyway, and turned back to the man with the child, looking angry "What are you doing here? Why did you bring her here? I told you to stay well away..."

"I had to," the man said, sounding distressed. That voice... Anders was sure he knew that voice from somewhere. "It wasn't safe for us any more. I was hoping you could smuggle us both somewhere better... Ferelden maybe..."

"_Ferelden!_ After all the work it took for me to get both of you safely out of there in the first place!?" Isabela exclaimed, sounding equal parts horrified and angry.

"That was then. It's safer there now than anywhere else."

"What about the Arl?" Isabela asked, frowning.

"You haven't heard? He's dead. The younger brother is Arl now, and he wouldn't know me even if I stood right in front of him. There's no one left there who remembers me, outside of the Tower."

It was mention of the Tower that did it... that, and ignoring the man's neatly cut brown hair to look at his profile instead, and suddenly placing the slightly nasal tone of his voice. "Maker's flaming farts... J_owan!_" Anders exclaimed in sudden recognition. It was the neat brown hair that had misled him, he realized, shaggy black locks being what he most remembered about Jowan. Even with black hair he might not have recognized him; this man was little like the Jowan he remember, once-slumped shoulders held straight, his entire bearing confident, and with a healthy tan instead of the tower pallor that was most common to mages.

Jowan barely glanced at him. "Hello, Anders," was all he said, clearly having had no problems in recognizing Anders himself. He shifted the toddler on his shoulder as he turned back to Isabela. "I heard you were here in Kirkwall; I didn't like coming here, it's about the worst place there is to be an apostate mage, but I'd no other hope of getting out of the Free Marches before templars catch up to us."

Isabela scowled. "Fine. Wait here, I need to go pull in a few favours. You're sure Ferelden is safer?"

"It's either there or Rivain," Jowan said. "She won't be safe anywhere else."

"Not Rivain," Isabela said flatly, eyes lingering for a moment on the sleeping girl, then turned and walked out.

Anders hesitated, unsure of whether to follow her or remain. The girl stirred, murmuring sleepily, then lifted her head and looked around. She was an attractive little thing, in the way of most children that young, with dusky skin and a mane of curly brown hair, touched with reddish highlights. The shape of her face was familiar, though a chubby, childish version of the one he knew so well. "Is she... that's Isabela's child, isn't she?" he asked Jowan.

Jowan glanced at him, and frowned slightly, then sighed. "Yes, she is," he admitted, hugging her close, protectively, then looked down at the girl as she reached up and patted at his chin. The affection in the smile he gave her was obvious, as was the delight in the way the little girl smiled up at him in turn.

"Yours?" Anders asked, then frowned. No, if she was Jowan's child, she'd be more likely to have black hair.

"In a manner of speaking," Jowan said vaguely, taking a strip of dried fruit out of a belt pouch and handing it to the girl. She held it in both hands, popping one end into her mouth and chewing and sucking on it to soften it, before turning to look curiously at Anders. Brown eyes; not the dark brown of her mother's eyes, but a lighter, more golden-brown colour. Honey brown. The same colour that looked back at him in the mirror when he bothered to shave.

His turn to pale, as he took a guess at the girl's age, and did some mental math. It was just barely possible. There'd been that time at the Pearl, shortly before the Blight, which he'd have forgotten of if not for Isabela having remembered, and reminded him of it herself. The electricity trick had been far from all they'd done that night.

He couldn't bring himself to ask, too frightened of what the answer might be. Not until later, when he stood at Isabela's side on the docks that evening, watching a ship set out, bound across the Waking Sea to Ferelden. He didn't need to ask then, either – Isabela must have seen the question in his eyes, as he looked at her, watching her expression as she watched the ship sail away, before turning to look at him, her face calm, remote.

"Yes, she's yours," she said, then looked back out after the ship, its sails filling with wind as it turned into the neck, leading out from the harbour to the sea. "She's better off with Levyn than with me; he promised to look after her, in exchange for me getting him out of Ferelden."

"Is she..."

"A mage? Yes," Isabela said. "He wrote me once, after she first manifested. He thinks she'll be a healer some day."

Anders swallowed, and turned to watch the ship again as well. "You're right," he said softly after a while. "She's better off with Jowan."

They watched in silence until the ship was out of sight, then went their separate ways.


	3. Soul Bond - Feynriel and Zevran

**Square #16 – Soul Bonding/Soul Mates – Feynriel/Zevran**

Zevran was beginning to think it was almost time for him to find a good place to stop and set up camp for the night when he rounded a curve and saw that he was not the only person in the area with such a thought. A scattering of small tents stood in a clearing among the boulders and spindly trees that bordered the path, centred around a smokey cook-fire in a shallow fire pit. Several well-armoured men were standing around; templars, he saw from their armour, their attention focused on something at one side of the small clearing.

A man, he saw as he drew closer. Very young, very blond, and very frightened, eyes staring so widely that Zevran could see white almost all the way around the large golden pupils. He was close enough to see the dark bruise that marred one cheek, showing above the edge of a cruelly tight gag in the youth's mouth, before the templars took notice of his approach. The way they turned to eye him hostilely, moving so the young man – young apostate, he presumed – was blocked from his view said much about their mood.

"Move along," one of them said harshly, his voice loud in the silence. "There's nothing for you to see here."

Zevran nodded and walked wide of the camp, keeping his eyes carefully averted as he gave a respectful bow to the templars in passing; he had no wish to draw their closer attention to himself. He could feel their eyes on his back until he rounded another curve, further up the trail. Perhaps he would keep walking for some considerable time longer before camping for the night after all, he found himself thinking, and did so, continuing up the trail until the sky was darkening noticeably before finding a place among the rocks to make his own well-hidden camp.

He found himself dwelling on the desperation in the apostate's eyes as he ate his cold supper. The poor bastard... the fate of an apostate was rarely a kind one, and he'd heard that Kirkwall was particularly cruel in its treatment of such. Likely death awaited him once he was brought to their so-aptly- named Gallows. Or failing that, tranquility. But it was no business of his, he decided, and put aside any further thoughts of the young man. Though that only worked until he slept; the golden-eyed youth haunted his dreams that night, his mute, pleading eyes cropping up repeatedly in Zevran's dreams, accompanied by a strong feeling of fear and desperation, waking Zevran over and over again.

The assassin was, accordingly, feeling tired and rather irritable when he rose and moved on the next morning, even the beauty of the sunrise failing to substantially improve his mood. Which perhaps explained why he failed to even notice the Dalish guards until they blocked his path, a lamentable state of affairs and one that he was thankful had not led him into any more dangerous situation.

"State your business, flat-ears," one of the guards demanded.

Zevran's eyebrows raised slightly. The Dalish were rarely particularly cordial to city elves, whom they considered to be little better than the humans they lived among, but it was rare for them to be so openly discourteous. The guards were angry, though not, he judged, at him. "I am seeking the Sabrae clan, whom I have heard may be found here," he explained politely. "I carry messages for Keeper Marethari and her First, Merrill."

The pair of guards relaxed slightly. "You'll not find Merrill here, she's First no longer, but you may deliver your message to Keeper Marethari, yes," the second guard said, and moved aside to let him pass, only belatedly offering him the polite greeting that the guards should have begun with. "_Andaran atish'an._"

Zevran smiled. "_Ma serannas_," he responded in thanks, and continued up the path to where he could see a cluster of aravels. He could see that all was not right with the Dalish camp as he drew closer; there were several pallets set up under canopies spread out from the sides of the aravels, the elves lying on them bandaged and bruised. More disturbing yet was the short row of blanket-wrapped forms lying motionless in the shade of a tree. Clearly the guards had a reason for their suspicion and anger.

Marethari was easy to pick out; her harried air of authority would have identified her easily, even if he'd not been given a particularly detailed description of her. She was examining a nasty gash on the arm of one of the wounded elves, one already sewn shut and well-daubed with poultice. She looked up as he approached, then turned her attention back to the woman. "Keep it covered. It will scar, but it should heal cleanly," she instructed, and rose as the woman began re-wrapping the bandage to cover it.

"And who might you be?" she asked, giving Zevran a head-to-toe look.

He bowed – very respectfully, of course – before responding. "My name is Zevran Arainai. I was a companion of Theron Mahariel in Ferelden during the Blight, and he asked me to deliver messages to yourself and your First since I would be passing near Kirkwall on my travels."

Marethari's suspicious expression vanished, a pleased smile briefly lighting her face in its place. "Theron! How is he? We heard he'd had some trouble, but defeated the archdemon in the end..."

Zevran smiled in return and nodded. "He did. It is a very long story, however, and it looks to me as if that is not something you currently have time for...?"

Marethari sighed. "Sadly not. I'm afraid we had some problems yesterday with a group of templars. There was a mage I had taken under my protection," she began then shook her head and sighed again. "Another long story. Tell me, will you be returning to Kirkwall? Merrill is there; if you like I can accept the message for her and have it brought to her later, or if you plan to return, there is a message I would have you carry to her from me as well."

He had not originally been planning to return Kirkwall, at least not until after his own business further north was taken care of – there was a man in Antiva whom, it seemed, needed a rather pointed explanation given to him as to just why it was unwise to send out Crows after Zevran – and yet he suddenly found himself changing his mind. He found himself thinking again of the young mage he'd seen the day before, who must be the very mage Marethari had just referred to. The boy had looked human in the brief glimpse he'd had of him; what had he been doing taking refuge in a Dalish camp? And why had they been willing to not just take him in, but to fight in his defence? "Yes, I will be returning," he said. "I have urgent business there; I am afraid I cannot wait for long."

She nodded. "Give me a few minutes, then – I will write a note for you to bring to Merrill." He nodded agreement, and she turned away, disappearing into one of the aravels for a few minutes, soon returning with a roll of thin white bark tied into a cylinder with a twisted strand of dried grass. He'd retrieved Theron's message for her from his pack by then – a sizable bundle of paper, well-wrapped in oilcloth – and traded the one for the other.

"_Dareth shiral_," she bid him, and hurried back to her patients before he'd even properly bid her farewell in turn.

* * *

He walked as quickly as he could, but the templars had at least half a day's lead on him; he saw no sign of them on the way back to Kirkwall. He dithered for a moment after reaching the city late that afternoon, trying to decide where to head first. The Gallows was the obvious destination, but... he had no contacts there, and very few in the city itself, and while he'd attempted near-suicidal rescues in the past, he preferred well planned and completely non-suicidal rescues whenever possible. He would deliver the messages first of all, he decided, and hope that this Merrill person might be able to provide him some information, a name, a contact, some kind of lead.

He did not particularly question why he desired to rescue the mage; he only knew that it was something he _had_ to do. He could no more imagine continuing on his journey without having at least made the attempt than he could imagine cutting off his own hand at the beginning of a fight. It disturbed him to feel so strongly about something, on the basis of nothing more than a brief look into terrified eyes, and yet... he must do this.

Merrill was easy to find, at least, and at home when he knocked on her door. A rather attractive elf; had he not been in such a hurry he would have enjoyed attempting to get to know her better. Her delighted smile when he gave her Theron's letter was particularly charming. It made him feel like such a cad to then break to her the bad news of what he'd seen at the clan's camp, and pass Marethari's message on to her. Her face filled with sorrow as she read the note.

"Oh, no... oh, poor Feynriel... I'll have to tell his mother," she said, sounding upset.

"Feynriel – is that the mage the templars were after?" he asked hopefully.

"What? Oh, yes... it is. His mother Arianni is Dalish, you see," she said confidingly, apparently believing that explained it all. It at least explained enough for him to make some guesses; a Dalish mother, a human father... there must be something special about the boy, special enough for the clan to have ignored his mixed heritage and taken him in. He was a mage, therefore it was most likely something to do with his magic. Not that it mattered; something to inquire about afterwards, perhaps, once he had rescued the boy.

"I saw him, on my way to visit the clan," he told her. "Just a glimpse, and I did not know at the time that they had attacked the elves in order to capture him. I regret I did not know... if there no hope for him?"

Merrill shook her head. "Not if they guess about his powers, and I suspect... I suspect they may have been told."

"By who? The mother?" Zevran asked in some surprise.

"No, the father. He returned to Kirkwall again recently, after losing almost all his goods and money to bandits. He moved in with Arianni for a while, and then a few days ago suddenly moved out again. I worry that she may have told him about their son's powers... and he may have told the templars where to find Feynriel, in exchange for a reward," she concluded darkly.

"His own son?" Zevran said, and shook his head in disgust.

Merrill shrugged. "He's never thought of Feynriel as his. He has a wife, back in Antiva..."

"He is Antivan? What is his name?" Zevran asked sharply. "You mentioned goods and money – is he a merchant?"

Merrill nodded. "Yes, he runs a shop in Lowtown. His name is Vincento."

Zevran nodded thoughtfully. A name he knew; a minor Crow contact, good for local information if he had no compunctions about threatening the man, but unlikely to be of any use to him. He doubted the man knew anything useful about the Gallows, nor by the sounds of it would he have any interest in helping to rescue his son. "Thank you. Tell me... if I can get Feynriel out of the Gallows, would you be able to help smuggle him back out of the city? To the Dalish again perhaps?"

Merrill frowned in though, then shook her head. "No, he wouldn't be safe there, even if I could. It's the first place they'd look for him. Well, the second, they'd likely come and search the alienage first, if they know who his mother is," she said, and then her face lit up with a hopeful expression. "You mean to try and rescue him? Why?"

Zevran shrugged. "I wish I knew," he admitted. "Just... there is something about him. I must try."

Merrill frowned, and then studied him thoughtfully. He felt very self-conscious, as if all his flaws were laid bare before her, and could see, suddenly, why she had been First. She smiled again, briefly, the smile that lit up her whole face. "I know someone who probably can help," she said confidingly. "Though he doesn't much care for me, so it might be best if you don't let him know that I'm the one who sent you to him."

The name and description she gave him surprised him greatly. But there could be no clearer sign that it was fate that had sent him scurrying back here. He thanked her for the name, and headed off to Darktown.

* * *

"And you promise that Theron will never learn of where I am?" Anders asked again, as he led the way through a winding underground tunnel. Underground and underwater, at least technically, though thankfully well-drained enough that it was only unpleasantly damp, nothing worse.

"I promise, he shall never hear of it from my lips, nor shall I divulge the information to anyone else who might tell him," Zevran said.

Anders gave him a look full of suspicion, then continued on, only stopping when they reached a set of stone stairs spiralling upwards. "There's a trap door at the top," he said. "The one I showed you on the map. If you can get him out... well, bring him to my clinic. We'll figure it out from there."

Zevran nodded. "My thanks," he said, and meant it. Anders nodded, and hurried back the way they'd come, taking the candle lantern that had lit their way with him; a safer light-source than magic, which templars might have detected. Zevran turned away, and shivered. He disliked the close-in darkness, but he knew the mage hated it even more. That Anders had been willing to lead him here through such a long and narrow passage said much about how little he wanted Theron to ever learn of his continued existence when the man thought him dead.

He went up the stairs slowly, all senses attentive for any out-of-place sound or smell or hint of light. There was nothing, until he neared the top of the stairs, and then just the faintest of hairline cracks of almost subliminally lighter darkness to mark the edges of the trapdoor. He listened carefully before finally setting hand to it. It opened smoothly and silently, both counter-weighted and well-oiled, into a room lit only by faint moonlight, and closed as silently behind him. He looked around before moving away; the trapdoor was well-camouflaged, and would be near-impossible to find if he forgot its exact location.

He ghosted through the darkened building, counting turns and listening carefully for guards, making his way toward the first of three locations where Anders had told him a freshly-caught apostate might be held. He was halfway there when he slowed and stopped. It felt... wrong, somehow. Not this way, he was suddenly sure of it, and backtracked three turns before taking a different route. He hurried now, increasingly uneasy though he wasn't sure why. He reviewed the map in his head, trying to think of where he was going, but wherever it was matched none of the locations Anders had mentioned nor the routes he had memorized that ran between them.

He felt a stab of fear, a feeling of growing panic, and almost stumbled in the shock of realizing that the feelings were not his own. _Feynriel_, he thought, and began to run, thankful that he knew how to do so silently, feet making barely a whisper against the hard stone floors. Long corridors, sometimes lit, trusting on speed and silence to prevent him being seen by anyone behind the few open doors, and then stairs; stairs down, winding into the depths of the earth under the Gallows. He came out into a lighted room at the base of the stairs, where two men guarded a closed iron-bound door. They were inattentive, believing themselves safe so deep within their fortress; their helms and gauntlets on the table between them with the tankards they'd been drinking from, the cards and coins they'd been gaming with. He did not have to even break stride to leave them dead or dying behind him before opening the door.

Another long corridor beyond it, lined with closed and locked doors. It dog-legged, he knew without having ever seen it, with more stairs down at the end, and... _terror_. He bit his tongue bloody to keep in the scream that wanted to emerge. He ran flat-out now, heedless of anything but the need to reach the mage before it was too late, taking the stairs three and four at a time before bursting through the door at the bottom of them.

A large room, well-lit by candles in every corner. A wooden table, a slender near-naked form fastened down upon it with straps of heavy leather, long blond hair streaming down to the floor from a head held canted backwards in a cage of leather-padded metal, eyes wide in terror, staring at the blue-glowing sunburst shaped brand in the hand of the man standing nearest to the table. Him, Zevran killed first of all, diving forward and crashing into him to push him bodily out of reach of Feynriel, one blade cutting his throat to the bone even as Zevran pushed off of him to regain his feet and turn. The priest sitting at the little table nearby, pen and ink and paper in front of her, had only just barely begun to push to her own feet, chair and table both being knocked over by the violence of her movement, eyes widening and mouth gaping open in terror. She had pissed herself, Zevran had time to note as his blade flew across the room to sink into the so-inviting target of that open mouth.

_Relief_, then, the force of it so strong it made his knees weaken and his eyes fill with tears. His hands were trembling so badly he couldn't manage to undo the buckles holding Feynriel down, and finally he cursed in frustration and took a knife to the tough leather instead. It parted easily, his hands steadying as the panic – the mage's feelings, he was certain – ebbed away, replaced with a confusion of feelings. The cage was the hardest part to remove, requiring turning a number of knobs to loosen it before Feynriel was able to slide his head out of it, turning to sit upright on the edge of the table.

Zevran sat down beside him and embraced him tightly, unsurprised when the mage clung as tightly to him in turn, both of them shaking in after-reaction. "You are all right?" he asked anxiously once they had both calmed a little. "They did not harm you?" He frowned at the bruise on the mage's cheek, the other bruises dappling torso and legs; a beating, he judged by the pattern of them. More than one person, or a lengthy session. Doubtless the templars had been unhappy about the resistance of the Dalish, and had taken out their anger for any harm they themselves suffered on the helpless mage.

"No, they didn't have time," Feynriel said, clearly having a different definition of harm in mind, and swallowed, blinking rapidly. "Thanks to you. I knew you were coming, but it was _so close_... I wasn't sure you'd make it in time."

"How did you know? How is it... I _feel_ what you feel, I _knew_ where I needed to go. What have you done to me?" Zevran asked suspiciously, and then felt a stab of fear. "You have not made me into your thrall, have you?"

"Maker, no!" Feynriel sounded horrified enough by the suggestion – and Zevran could feel that the emotion was real, not some pretence – that he relaxed again. "No, I don't know what happened," Feynriel said. "We are joined, somehow, since yesterday."

"Is this permanent?" Zevran asked, frowning slightly.

Feynriel shrugged. "I don't know. I don't even know where we could find out; I've never even heard of such a thing."

Zevran sighed. "Something to worry about later, I think; right now we must get you out of here, before anyone discovers the guards and raises an alarm. You are unharmed? You can walk?"

Feynriel's mouth curved in an amused smile. It felt odd, to both see the smile and feel the amusement and elation behind it. "I can walk. I can run, if need be. Swim. Whatever it takes to get out of here."

"Then let us go," Zevran said, and led him away.

* * *

"A soul bond," Anders said, leaning back against a table nearby, arms crossed in front of him, watching as Zevran sponged Feynriel's bruises with a cold poultice.

"A what?" Zevran asked, frowning.

"A soul bond. There was a page or two about them in a very old book I once read, in the library at Kinloch Hold. They're very rare. No one knows what causes it, though there are theories. Two halves of a sundered soul being the more romantic nonsense. Two people who are a supernaturally good fit for each other is another. Fated lovers. That sort of thing. But no one knows, and the few soul bonds that are known about were never much inclined to allowing themselves to be studied to find out."

Feynriel snorted, then winced as Zevran dabbed at the blood-crusted corners of his mouth, the skin split by the gag he'd been wearing when the assassin first saw him. Zevran smiled, feeling the mage's mix of emotions; an odd mix of gratitude and irritation. "Is there no way to break it?" Feynriel asked. "This soul bond."

Anders shrugged. "I don't know. You could try purposefully going your separate ways and see if the bond fades in time, I suppose."

Another look exchanged, a flurry of brief emotions; it was almost as good a way of sharing nformation as talking, Zevran could see. Like an old couple who, living together so long, can just glance at each other and divine the other's thoughts, only this was not educated guesswork; this was _knowing_ how the other felt.

"No," they said firmly, in unison.

Anders snorted. "That's already getting creepy. Leaving together then, I take it?"

"Yes," they answered, and exchanged amused grins.

Anders rolled his eyes. "Wait here, then... I'll go make the arrangement," he said, and left.

Zevran cleaned the last smear of grime and dried blood from Feynriel's skin, then put the bowl and cloth aside and sat back, studying him. Feynriel looked back with equal interest.

He was young; very young, still in his teens, and only just barely more then half Zevran's age. His half-elven heritage showed only in a slight point to the upper curve of his ears, his golden eyes – the pupils just a little larger and brighter in colour than was usual among humans – and the narrowness of his chest. He had more body hair than an elf, though at the lower end of hairy for humans; just a dusting of faint blond hairs on arms and legs and chest, a thin trail leading down from his navel to within the short breeches he wore. He was handsome, and Zevran felt a faint stirring of lust, then coloured as he realized it was something Feynriel could feel.

Surprise, from the mage, and embarrassment as well. A touch of fear, and a healthy dose of curiosity. Untouched, Zevran guessed. Feynriel gave him a side-long look, and then a faint smile curved his lips. _Amusement_. And more curiosity. That was good. He smiled back, and shrugged. He could not change himself just because there was now someone listening in. And he wasn't sure he wanted to. And judging by the speculative look in the mage's eyes... perhaps he didn't have to.

"Later," he said, and Feynriel nodded. Too much to do now, and too much danger, for them to explore that side of this new thing between them, this soul bond.

* * *

A slide down a long rope in darkness to the deck of a slowly-moving ship was not Zevran's preferred way to leave a city. It was even less to Feynriel's taste, the mage having little experience of sliding down ropes, but it sufficed to get them from a back entrance – back exit, more correctly speaking – of Anders' clinic onto an outbound ship without them having to go anywhere near the docks, or the angry templars watching for a recently escaped apostate. He could feel Feynriel's fear as they hung on the end of the rope, waiting for the ship to pass beneath their position. He sent back his own confidence and enjoyment, and felt Feynriel's fear ease a little.

Not that he was entirely without fear himself; the move from hanging rope to moving ship would be dangerous, and if they missed the deck and ended up in the water, there was a chance they would die here; the ship could not turn back for them, not without it being noted by anyone watching from the distant docks, and there would only be a very brief period of time in which ropes might be thrownto them to haul them on board.

The ship drew closer, slowing as it neared the sheer stone walls of the neck and began a turn to tack back towards the centre. "Be ready," he said quietly to Feynriel, watching as a man out on the bowsprit at the front of the ship swung a weighted line in widening circles. The ship drew closer, slowing even further as it began its turn. A very nicely judged manoeuvre, it would pass within feet of where they hung while moving at its slowest. The weight swung out in a widening arc, then the trailing line touched the heavy rope dangling down beneath where they hung, and it spiralled in, wrapping around it tightly. The man on the bowsprit moved back, to where a pair of sailors waited to help haul on the line, drawing their rope in to overhang the deck. "Now," he told Feynriel, and felt proud of the mage when the man did not question, but simply slid down the tilting rope and into the sailor's arms. He followed, setting foot on deck just moments later, the sailors already hurriedly unwinding their line from the rope, releasing it to be hauled back up the cliff.

Relief and joy from Feynriel brought a smile to his own face. He laughed, letting the mage feel his own delight. It was strange how quickly it had come to feel entirely natural to be so aware of Feynriel's feelings. As Feynriel was aware of his own, he knew, and felt a surge of amusement, answered by a like feeling from the mage.

He smiled again, and Feynriel smiled back, the two for the moment feeling in perfect accord.


	4. Kidfic - Saemus and Qunari

**Square #1 – Kidfic – Saemus/Qunari**

"Let me see your face," Nurse said, so Saemus tilted up his head to look at her. She smiled warmly at him, eyes wreathed in wrinkles, and smoothed back his hair with one thin-fingered hand. "Good. Now remember to be a good boy, mind your manners, and don't stray too far from your father's side, or away from your guards. Yes?"

Saemus nodded. "Yes, Nurse," he said firmly.

He was, he knew, getting too old to have a nurse. But Nurse was old, very old – she'd been his own mother's Nurse, when mother was a little girl just his age, and had come with her to Kirkwall when mother came here to marry father – and father had said she might as well stay on as his nurse, since it couldn't be too much longer anyway. Too much longer until what, he wasn't sure – father had never said – but he was glad that he still had Nurse, since mother was gone and father had so little time to spend with him any more.

He missed mother. The last two times he'd seen her still stuck in his memory so clearly. In the first of them she'd been very happy and smiling, and had laughed and read him a story, though he'd had to sit beside her instead of in her lap because the-baby-that-was-coming took up so much room. And then the last time he'd seen her she'd been very white and still, and cold when he kissed her cheek. She'd been all wrapped up in cloth like a swaddled baby, with just her face showing, and a smaller bundle on top of her that was the baby, which hadn't come after all, or had come and then gone again very quickly, he was never sure which. He'd never even got to see it at all – just the little bundle of cloth – nor known if it had would have been a brother or sister to him. Nurse's eyes had been full of tears, and father's face very stiff and empty, and then they'd taken the bundles away. "For the pyre," Nurse told him. "But you don't have to go see that unless you want to."

He hadn't been sure if he wanted to or not. In the end he stayed in his room, with Nurse there to read him a story, holding him on her own warm wide lap as she so rarely did any more. He never saw mother again, and father was changed, afterwards. He didn't smile much any more, and he was almost always too busy with his work to see Saemus.

But today he had time; today Saemus was to go with him, on a long walk outside. He had to be very good, he'd been told by Nurse, and dress nicely and remember his manners and smile at people. He had new clothes for today, of a soft fabric. It was furry, not like a cat or a dog is furry, but like the short fur of a young mouse he'd caught in his rooms once, and just as soft to the touch. Velvet, Nurse told him. Black velvet, trimmed with a little lace at the cuffs and neck, which looked beautiful and soft but was scratchy and made his neck itch, only he mustn't rub at it, and he must keep the lace cuffs clean and not catch or tear them on anything.

He spent a while thinking about the mouse, while he waited for his guards to come and fetch him. He'd kept it as a pet for most of a month, feeding it bits of food from his own meals. It was very scared at first, hiding in the corner of the box he'd put it in, but he was very patient and sat very still, as Nurse told him to do, and after a while it grew brave enough to come take the food from between his fingers. Later it would even sit in his hand and eat while he petted it very gently, running one fingertip down its soft grey back. Mother had laughed when he'd made her come see it one day, and told him she'd had a mouse too, when she was a little girl. Then one day he woke up and the box was empty, and Nurse showed him the spot where the mouse had nibble away at a small knothole in one of the planks and made it a big enough hole to squeeze out of.

"Don't cry, sweetling, he's just run home to his own family," she told him. "And he'll tell them all about the adventures he had, living with the giants."

"What giants?" Saemus had asked, puzzled.

"Why, you and me, sweetling! Think of how big a man would have to be compared to you, to be as big to you as you are to a mouse. That would be a giant indeed!"

He'd decided that was funny, and laughed, and after that he was glad the mouse had gone home. No wonder Mouse had been so scared of him. Mouse had been very, very brave to ever come near him at all, he decided; he didn't think he could ever be that brave.

His guards finally arrived, all three of them today, though normally he only went about with one. But _normally_ he only was allowed to walk around within the keep and its gardens, not outside into the city. Outside in the city must be more dangerous. His guards were all nicely dressed today, their armour polished until it gleamed and with new-made tabards worn over top, marked with the falcon that was the symbol of the Dumar family. He greeted them each politely, by name, winning smiles from all three, and then said good-bye to Nurse and went out of his rooms, down the hallway and down the spiral staircase to the public areas, where he was seldom allowed to go. Father's office was there, and the throne room, and the guard offices, and all kinds of other interesting places.

Father was standing outside his office, dressed all in black and gold except for his cloak, which was a deep purple marked with the red crest of Kirkwall. He smiled when he saw Saemus coming, and ended his conversation with the Seneschal. The new Seneschal, Bran, whom Saemus wasn't quite certain yet if he liked or not. He's liked the old one, Evan, who'd always smiled at him, and would answer his questions if he wasn't too busy. But Evan was old, and got too forgetful, and so he'd gone to live with his youngest daughter in Ansburg, and now Bran was Seneschal. And bran was always too busy to answer any questions.

"You look very well," father said approvingly.

"Thank you," Saemus said politely, remembering what Nurse had said about remembering his manners.

Father smiled, and Bran called over father's guards – a pair of city guards, dressed in the Kirkwall colours, and wearing different armour than what Saemus' personal guards wore – and then bowed to both of them before returning to his office, with was really part of father's. And then Saemus and his father left the Keep together, father's guards leading the way and Saemus' following along behind.

It was a beautiful day outside, sunny, with just a few small white clouds high up in the sky. It was warm, but with a light breeze, so not too warm, even in black velvet which seemed to soak up the sun. They walked to the chantry first of all, and everyone they passed on the way bowed politely to father, and sometimes smiled or nodded at Saemus. At the chantry they stood for a while, looking at the big statue of Andraste, and then they left their guards in a group while Saemus and his father went forward, father getting two red candles from one of the baskets, and lighting them both before handing one to Saemus. "Find a place to put it, and then pray for a couple of minutes," father told him quietly.

Saemus nodded, and looked around, then walked over to where there was already a lot of candles. He could feel the heat from all them, and smell the sweet scent of the beeswax they'd been made of. He crouched down, careful of the flames, and tipped his candle far enough over to drip some wax on the floor, then set it down in the puddle. Then he moved back a step, away from the heat, and stood and thought for a little while, wondering what he should pray about. He couldn't think of anything he wanted enough to pray for; nothing that he thought was likely to come true, anyway. It was like making a wish, Nurse had once told him, only it was best to pray for only very little things for yourself, and best of all to pray for good things for other people. So in the end he prayed that his father would be happy again, and that Nurse's _too much longer_ would be a long time coming, because he didn't want her to have to go away, even if he was too old for a nurse. Then he finally thought of something for himself, and wished that he might have a friend to play with, or maybe a pet, even just another one like Mouse that was only there for a little while.

Afterwards they walked back the way they'd come, back past the keep and continuing on to the market. Saemus loved the market, though he only rarely got to go there. There were so many things to look at, though he was always careful not to touch, and knew that he was to say 'no' and 'thank you' if anyone offered him anything. The market was in two parts – the Hightown market at the top of the stairs, and the Lowtown market at the foot, and he was only allowed in the top part. He wished he could go see the Lowtown market some time. The closest he'd been allowed was to stand on the stairs once, where he could look down and see the lower half, though it was just a mess of little figures and colourful canopies from all the way up here. But it had been interesting anyway, to watch the little people – smaller than dolls, from this height – milling around, and a team of elves working the big wheel that made the cargo sledge come up on its tracks, filled to the top with things recently brought in by ship.

He looked around, wondering if he might go to the stairs and watch again. Father was in the middle of talking with someone, he could see – a noble, based on how he was dressed – so rather than interrupt, Saemus continued on with his guards, looking back every now and then to make sure father was still there. He glanced at the stairs every now and then too, wanting to go over there but not sure if it was allowed, but slowly making his way in that general direction in case it was. So he was quite close to the stairs and happened to be looking the right way to see the demons entering the market.

Saemus froze, staring in wide-mouthed horror at the two of them. They were _huge_ – giants, a part of him said, though not as gigantic to him as he'd been to Mouse – with horns on their heads, skin an almost metallic bronze in colour, and white hair. For a moment he thought no one else could see them – they weren't screaming, or running away, or shouting for templars to come – and then he saw that people _could_ see them, but weren't upset by them being there. So maybe they weren't demons after all. He tugged on Ser Hiddles's tabard, and nodded his head toward the pair, who'd stopped to look at merchandise at one of the stalls. "What _are_ they?" he asked softly.

"Qunari, from oversees," Hiddles answered. "Rivain maybe, or Seheron, or even all the way from Par Vollen."

"Qunari," Saemus repeated, and studied them. He'd heard the word before, when Nurse was teaching him his history lessons. Giants from the far north, they'd held Kirkwall for a few years until the Orlesians drove them back out and then held Kirkwall themselves, but that had been over a hundred years ago. Closer to two hundred, he thought; he'd have to ask Nurse the years again to be sure. He watched the pair with interest. They were both dressed as soldiers of some kind, he saw, with armour made of shaped hardened leather, the taller one with a two-handed sword longer then any of Saemus' guards was tall strapped on its back, the other with a pair of oddly-shaped swords at his waist. No, not swords, Saemus decided, considering the scale of the blades in relation to the Qunari – they would be swords for a human, but for the Qunari, they were little more in size than a long knife or dagger.

The taller Qunari's hair was tightly braided, he saw as he moved a little closer, its eyes a light purple colour. The smaller one had longer hair, lying loose down its back; it looked silky to the touch. And very dark eyes, he saw, as it turned and saw him, and looked back at him. He studied its face for a long moment; the wide jaw, the heavy brow ridge over deep-set eyes, the calm, slightly curious expression on its face as it studied him in turn. It was the younger of the pair, he suddenly decided, comparing their sizes; the big one was clearly an adult, and the smaller one was not, the differences between the two being about the same as what he'd have expected to see between a grown knight and a young squire, only the scale of them having confused him.

He wondered, for a moment, how he looked to it. Very small and pale and delicate, he found himself thinking.

Then the big one said something, in a tongue he'd never heard before, and the smaller one nodded at him before turning and following the other one away, across the market and up the stairs and out of sight. The way they moved... he didn't have words for it. They were so big and bulky he half-expected them to move stolidly, or clumsily, like an ox or a bear, yet they were somehow so graceful and balanced. Dangerous, he thought. And strong.

"Ah, there you are," his father said, appearing at his side and smiling down at him. "Enjoying the market?"

"Yes! I saw two qu... qun.."

"Qunari?" his father asked, eyebrows rising, and glanced at Saemus' guards.

"Pair of them, ser... they kept their distance," Ser Perry answered. "Beresaad, by the look of 'em."

Father nodded. "They've a ship in harbour. Taking on rations. I suppose if there's a pair up here, they've come to see me... best we head back to the keep and see what they want," he said.

Saemus could not help feeling disappointed about that. He'd hoped to stay out longer. To have more time with father. Father seemed to guess how he was feeling; he set his hand of Saemus' shoulder for a moment, and squeezed gently, smiling down at him. "If they _are_ here to speak with me, I'm sure Seneschal Bran can keep them entertained for long enough that you and I can take our time returning. Come, let's buy some sweets as a present for your Nurse before we head back. And perhaps a treat for you as well."

Saemus smiled, and only just restrained himself from bouncing, the qunari forgotten for now as he followed his father off to the confectioner's stall, trying to decide what to get. Nurse like candied lemon peel, he knew, and for himself... well, he didn't think his father would take 'everything!' as an answer. But maybe he could talk father into getting him two or three things, and not just one.

He'd just have to see.


	5. In Vino Veritas - Varric and Saemus

**Square #6 – In Vino Veritas/Drunkfic – Varric/Saemus**

"Get the kid sorted out, Varric," Hawke had said, and retreated from the slaughterhouse that was all that was left of the qunari's campsite, littered with dead bodies. The mercenaries didn't matter, but the qunari... that was going to be trouble, Varric was certain.

He glanced at Isabela, who shrugged unhelpfully and walked away, following after Hawke and the mage, retreating up the hillside to make camp for the night. Hawke could have told her to sort the kid out, but maybe it was best that he hadn't; she certainly could have pulled it off, but perhaps her methods weren't the most appropriate for this situation. Varric sighed, then walked over to where the boy was sitting on the sand near the body of his friend, all curled up on himself. Wishing the world away, Varric supposed, or at least wishing it different.

He could think of only one remedy for what Saemus was going through. Okay, perhaps more than one,. But only one that he happened to have readily to hand at the moment. He unhooked the wine skin from his belt – filled with Corffe's best rotgut, not wine – and dangled it on its cord before the boy's face. "Here," he said. "Drink."

"What good will that do?" Saemus said bitterly.

Varric shrugged. "Not much. Mostly it'll just make you drunk. And sometimes things are easier to deal with when you've got a little extra padding between you and reality."

Saemus snorted, but he also reached out and took the wineskin, working the cork loose and then squeezing a good-sized shot of it into his mouth. His eye's widened in surprise and he almost dropped the wineskin as he hurriedly shielded his mouth with the back of his other hand and coughed, losing part of the drink down his chin.

"Maker! What is that stuff?" he asked in a choked voice.

"I always think it's better not to know. Corff brews it in the back rooms of the Hanged Man, and I really prefer not to consider what things might be on his list of ingredients," Varric said, then took back the wineskin and shot some of the fluid into his own mouth, grimacing slightly as he swallowed. "Smoother than usual," he said hoarsely, then lowered himself to the sand nearby and held out the wineskin to Saemus. "Go on, drink up."

Saemus eyed the wineskin dubiously, then took it back and drank again, a smaller squirt of it this time. And coughed again, but this time only after swallowing. His eyes watered – either from the vileness of the drink or the body nearby – and he swiped at his cheeks before taking a third gulp.

"So tell me what Viscount Dumar's little boy is doing hanging out on the Wounded Coast with a qunari," Varric said.

"I'm not a _little boy_," Saemus said, cheeks reddening with anger. "And I'm more than just my father's son. I'm _myself_. Ashaad..." His voice broke, and he paused long enough to take another gulp of wine. "Ashaad is the only person I've ever met who understood that. He didn't care who my father was, he never even asked. He didn't have some preconceived notion of what I should be like, what I should do. He just... he just accepted me as me."

Varric bit his lip; he knew a little about qunari, enough to know that 'father' wasn't a concept most of them paid any attention to. Or 'mother' either for that matter; they were communally raised by people whose role in their society was to raise the children. They didn't have families as humans, elves and dwarves understood the term; instead they were bred like prized livestock, pedigrees carefully tracked and crosses arranged by their leadership. They were usually born for the roles they filled, with little to no choice involved as to what it would be, other than whatever natural aptitudes they might happen to demonstrate by the appropriate ages. Of course this 'Ashaad' wouldn't have asked about Saemus' lineage, nor much cared if the boy himself had happened to mention it. But that wasn't anything the boy needed to hear, at least not right now with his friend's body cooling on the sand nearby.

"Tell me more about him," Varric said instead. "He sounds like an interesting guy."

So Saemus did, over the course of the next hour, his speech increasingly well-lubricated by Corff's rotgut. A sad tale, Varric decided, making appropriate noises at intervals to encourage the boy to keep talking, pouring out the story of his burgeoning friendship with the qunari. His growing interest in and appreciation of the religion of the horned giants, the Qun from which their name derived.

Saemus fell silent eventually, slumped sideways against a hunk of driftwood, eyes half-shut, the limp wineskin draped over one outstretched leg. Varric begun to think he'd drifted off to sleep, and then he stirred again, and sighed.

"The one thing I regret," Saemus said tiredly, voice thick with grief, "Is that I never managed to work up the nerve to tell him how important he was to me. That I... that I loved him, as much as it's possible for a man to love a qunari."

Varric started to answer, then froze as he saw a faint stir of movement from the direction of the qunari's corpse. No; not quite a corpse; clawed fingers twitched just slightly, ends sinking infinitesimally into the soft sand. There was the merest slit of eyes visible, a faint glitter of reflected firelight showing as the eyes moved, focusing on the boy. For a moment Varric almost reacted; almost rose shouting for Anders. But... he'd seen the wounds the qunari had taken. Even if the giant wasn't already too far gone with blood loss, the blow to his back he'd taken from that mercenary had done damage of the sort even Anders couldn't heal. And yet... was that his decision to make?

Before he could change his mind, the decision was taken out of his hands anyway; the hand relaxed again, the qunari's face going slack. Too late, far too late.

"I'm sure he knew," Varric said, his own voice thick now. "I'm sure he knew, before the end."


	6. Mind Control - Morrigan and Nathaniel

**Square #8 – Mind Control – Morrigan/Nathaniel**

She'd considered the dwarf, first of all. But dwarves were naturally resistant to magic, and she didn't want to risk having her target become aware of her manipulations. Especially since it was using powers _he _would not have approved of.

She settled on the other rogue instead, a thin dark-haired man with archer's shoulders and a wisp of beard beneath his lip. The only difficulty was in finding a time where he was both alone and inattentive. Even without the evidence of his blades and bow she would have guessed him for a rogue by his awareness of his surrounding at all times. Only her own shape-shifting ability allowed her to track him without him noticing her, and she could not cast while in animal form.

On the third night, he paused to answer a call of nature while his companions continued along the path through the Wending Wood. She waited a little way further down, hidden in a patch of shadow. Once he moved within range made the small necessary cut in the heel of her left hand, wrapping her powers around him before he noticed she was there.

After that it was easy; a small packet handed to him, a minor compulsion laid, a spell of forgetfulness following it so that he would have no memory of their few moments of meeting, nor of the package. He would simply see to it that it ended up in some private place that his commander would find it.

She watched him walk away before turning away and beginning her journey back home, taking only a handful of steps before taking to the air as an owl, well-adapted to flight at night. She had not meant to be away this long, but she trusted no one to deliver what she'd folded away in the parcel. Along lock of black hair; a much smaller curl of brown.

He would understand the message they conveyed. And in time, begin a hunt of his own.


	7. Kiss To Save The Day - Sigrun Merrill

**Square #18 – Kiss To Save The Day – Merrill/Sigrun**

They'd been leery of accepting the blood mage into the Grey Wardens. They already had several mages, which made the Chantry titchy to begin with, the chantry generally preferring that the wardens in any given country limited themselves to only one mage warden at a time. That she was a blood mage, and Dalish... well, that only made it all the more likely that the chantry would have Words To Say about the latest Grey Warden. And after the way things had turned out with the _last _blood mage they'd accepted... well, they weren't in any particular rush to recruit another.

That in itself might have been enough to spur the Warden-Commander on into offering the joining ritual to the woman. But to top it off she was an old friend of the Warden-Commander's, and knew Bethany as well, and when she showed up on the doorstep of Vigil's Keep in Bethany's company one day, seeking asylum after the horrific events in Kirkwall the week before, it had seemed the easiest solution.

And she'd been willing, even knowing that it was a one-way path, and frequently a lethal one.

Nathaniel had to admit that for all her small size, she pulled her weight and then some. He'd still rather have had Bethany as his mage – in more ways than one – but she'd managed to break an arm while abroad, and bone healed best when it was allowed to heal naturally, so it would be some time yet before she was back on active duty. And in the meantime, he was stuck with the new mage in his group; a mage who was good at dishing out the damage, but lamentably untrained in healing same. Still, they were used to getting by on potions when they had too, and she _did_ make sure that things died faster, which tended to mean less injuries to start with.

He'd begun to think this patrol would, overall, be a routine run through the Wending Woods, with their usual brief stop in at the silverite mine to be sure everything was still fine there. It had been briefly home to darkspawn, after all, and the miners were always reassured by having wardens drop in to check that the place was safe. Only they arrived to find all the miners outside the mine instead of in, and several of them being bandaged, and worst of all, a blanket-covered corpse off to one side.

"What happened?" he demanded of the foreman as soon as his party drew close enough.

"Warden Nathaniel! I'm glad you're here... we cleared a passageway into another set of caves, only to find that there was something still alive in there."

"Darkspawn?" Sigrun asked, moving to stand at Nathaniel's side, hand resting on the axe hanging from her belt.

"Don't know what it is. Big, with long legs... kind of spider-ish, but not."

"How big?" Nathaniel asked worriedly.

"Bigger then three men standing on each other's shoulders," the foreman said. "But its body is tiny, and it can fit through surprisingly small tunnels, as long as they're straight enough for it to get those long legs through; it was crawling out through the new passageway the last we saw of it. Maker only knows where in the mine it is by now."

"All right, we'll go see what we can do," Nathaniel said, and rounded up his wardens.

* * *

A long search, a sudden ambush, a hard fight.

"A _varterral!_" Merrill exclaimed as the creature dropped to the floor in front of them. "Be wary, it has a poisonous sting."

No further words after that, apart from battle cries and the odd word of warning, until the huge creature finally slumped to the floor, seemingly dead.

"It's not _really_ dead," the mage said, walking over to it and setting her pale hand against its dark, smooth chitin. She sounded as if she was about to cry. "They're magical creatures; guardians. As long as what it was created to guard is still here, it will return."

Nathaniel looked at the motionless creature, and then to her. "You've seen them before?"

"Yes," she said hoarsely, and glanced at him, blinking back tears. "And lost friends to them. We must find what it was guarding, and remove it, or it will be back." Her voice broke on the words, and she turned away, shaking visibly now.

Nathaniel frowned, concerned by how upset she was, and took a step forward, then froze as he saw the still-bleeding cut on her wrist, the faint fog of blood still swirling around her. The fight was over; why was she still casting? Or was it her casting; was her demon perhaps getting the better of her?

She dropped to her knees on the floor, hands pressed to her face, and sobbed. The blood cloud thickened.

"Shit," one of the other wardens said faintly, all of them falling back a step as the blood mist thickened and rose in a swirl around her.

Not a good sign. Not a good sign _at all_.

"Merrill? What's wrong?" Sigrun asked, voice warm with concern. She'd made an effort to befriend the mage, as she did all new recruits; she liked having friends.

Merrill shook her head, but otherwise did not respond.

Nathaniel frowned, then signed for his other wardens to retreated, already reaching for his bow again. The wardens took care of their own; including, when necessary, seeing that they had an ending. He'd been among those present when their previous blood mage had turned abomination; he knew what needed to be done.

"Wait," Sigrun said anxiously, putting her hand on his arm, then without waiting for permission hurried forward, ignoring the bloody mist to crouch at the elven girl's side. The swirl bobbled, then redirected itself to flow around her without touching her; some effect of the natural dwarven immunity to magic, perhaps.

Nathaniel frowned, but forbore from drawing his bow as the dwarf talked quietly to the elf, their voices to low to hear. Sigrun slipped an arm around Merrill's shoulder after a while, giving her what looked like a comforting hug, and then kissed her.

The mist dissipated, Merrill's shoulders shaking as she cried in the circle of Sigrun's strong arms. Nathaniel moved off, taking the rest of his wardens with him, to give the pair privacy. She'd be all right now, it looked like. And they'd need to return to the mine entrance and fetch a guide, so they could go explore the newly opened caves and look for whatever the creature had been guarding.


	8. Huddle for Warmth - Sebastian and Merril

**Square #17 – Huddle for Warmth – Sebastian/Merrill**

They should have listened to Carver, Sebastian found himself thinking. The warden had said that crossing the sheet of snow-covered ice was likely to be dangerous, and been full of advice about ropes and probing the way ahead with poles and so on. Hawke, however, had overruled his younger brother, scoffing at what he termed "excess caution".

Doubtless he wasn't scoffing any longer. Not after first Merrill and then Sebastian had plunged down a deep crevasse in the ice, hidden until the snow sealing over the top of it had crumbled beneath their feet. Hawke had been looking just the right direction for Sebastian to have glimpsed the horror-struck look on his face as the ground had dropped out from under the two of them and they plummeted into the depths of the glacier.

It had been a very long fall, and only the fact that it was not a straight up-and-down crevasse had saved them; it slanted, so the actually _falling_ part had not been enough to do more than bruise them and knock the wind out of them, especially padded as it was by the loose snow that had dropped down first. But the sliding, afterwards... that had been a long and rough ride, down into the darkness under the glacier, the slope of the crevasse gradually gentling until they shot out into a low-roofed space deep under the glacier, floored in cobbles and rounded pebbles, with a narrow, shallow stream bed down the middle, and roofed in dripping ice. It had been eerily lit by light filtered through the thick ice overhead, changed from the bright sunlight they'd been in on top of the glacier to a deep sapphire blue. Like being in the heart of a gemstone. But cold, cold and wet.

There was obviously no hope of returning back up the way they'd come down. And so, after only a brief discussion, the two of them set off downstream, figuring the water must flow downhill and come out _somewhere_. But that first stream proved to flow into a huge ice-roofed lake, the changing thickness of the roof of thick ice overhead dying it every shade imaginable of blue and green. They'd just stood and stared for long moments at it, awed by the beauty of the hidden lake.

They'd explored the bit of shore around it that was accessible from that stream mouth, but short of wading out into the frigid waters to try and work around some of the bulwarks of ice that extended right out into the waters, there was no way to pass by it. They'd had to backtrack, looking for other tunnels, of which there turned out to be many, the underside of the glacier proving to be a warren of tunnels cut by the melt water. Tunnel after tunnel proved to be of no help, however, either ending in a vertical shaft too steep to climb, or seeping out from underneath a place where the ice dipped back down to meet the stones underfoot, or in some place where the meltwater spurted out of a small opening in the ice overhead before flowing off downhill. And every stream they followed either took them back to the lake again at some other point along its buried shore, or disappeared into the ground underfoot or back under ice too low for them to navigate through the gap.

And it was cold. Cold enough to see their own breath, which was bad enough, but also so wet from the constant dripping of water from overhead that they were both damp – and cold and damp was, he knew, a very dangerous combination, wicking away their body heat at a dangerous rate. Worse, the light was fading already, the air growing even chillier as whatever little warmth had penetrated along with the light faded away. He could see frills of ice forming on the cobbles that bordered the countless little streams and freshets criss-crossing the cave floors.

"Do you think we'll find a way out?" Merrill asked, pausing to peer down two branches of the ice tunnel they were currently exploring, trying to guess which passage might lead to a way out. "Or that Hawke will come and find us?"

"I hope so," Sebastian said. "But this glacier stretches for miles. That's a lot of territory to explore."

"At least they weren't fools enough to jump down after us," Merrill said, managing a thin smile.

"Maybe Hawke listened to Carver for once," Sebastian suggested.

Merrill smiled again. "He does sometimes seem the more sensible of the pair, for all that he's the younger one," she agreed, then nodded at the left-hand tunnel. "Let's try this way," she said, and used a little of her energy to make a deep mark in the ice before they set off upstream. Just in case someone _did_ come looking for them, and so they'd know if they circled around on themselves and crossed their own path, which they'd already done once today.

She had to summon a wisp to light their path a little later, the deep blue light fading to a bruised purple shade and then to black altogether, only the little area around them lit by the blue-green glow of her wisp. It made everything around them look strange, even stranger than the blue light had, the shadows somehow darker and far more ominous.

He almost missed seeing the dry spot. A giant boulder in the middle of a wide area, sheered in half horizontally at some point in the past, one edge of the upper half still resting on top of the lower, the two together acting as a roof over a small patch of cobbles and pebbles. The lower half was diverting the constant small streams to either side, as well; a tiny island of dryness, the first he'd seen since they'd found themselves down here.

"There," he said, and pointed. "We should rest and try to get dry while we can."

Merrill nodded, and picked her way across to the little island, wading through the icy freshets with her jaw set as if to belie how achingly cold the melt-water and the stones underfoot must be to her bare feet.

It was not a terribly large space made by the rocks; not tall enough to do much more than sit up within, and not quite long enough to lie down in without getting feet or hair wet. At least not for him; Merrill could had lain down, but then there'd have been no room for Sebastian.

"Is there any magic you can do to warm us?" he asked as they eyed the narrow space. "Even just getting our clothes dry would make a difference..."

She made a face. "We'd need Anders or Hawke for that; I'm no good at elemental magics, no more than I am at healing."

He eyed her worriedly. The hood of his leather jacket – and that his jacket _was_ leather, and covered by a coat of metal scales, which mostly shed the water rather than letting it soak through – meant he wasn't too badly off, but Merrill... Her clothes weren't meant for such conditions, and he could see she was getting dangerously chilled, the blue of her lips caused by more than just the strange lighting here under the ice. Her chain mail didn't shed water like his scale mail did, and the cloth tabard thing she wore over it was dripping with the water it had absorbed over the course of the day. She was shivering, which wasn't entirely a bad thing, he knew; the dangerous point was when one became too cold to even do that.

"Strip out of your things," he said abruptly. "We'll have to share warmth, as much as we can, and as wet as what you're wearing is, it's doing you more harm than good."

She nodded jerkily. Even by the faint light of her wisp he could see the blush in her cheeks as she turned away from him before beginning to remove her clothes. He turned his back, to give her what little privacy he could, and then set about removing his own outer garments.

Her tabard, with as much water wrung out of it as the two of them could manage, was spread out on the floor of the little cave-like area, in hopes it might dry overnight and to give them at least a little padding between them and the cold stone. Then Sebastian, dressed just in his leggings and the thing linen shirt he wore under his armour, edged into the space, sitting upright against the lower half of the boulder, shivering at the coldness of it against his back. Then Merrill crawled in, and sat sideways in his lap, curled up against him so as little of her near-naked body was in contact with the cold stones as possible. His jacket they draped over top of them like a blanket. The outside of it was damp, but the inner lining was still dry, and warm from Sebastian wearing it.

They nibbled on some of the travel food he'd had in one of his many belt pouches; sticky bars of grain pressed together with honey and nuts and bits of dried fruit, and some strips of dried meat, salty and tough as old shoe leather and about as flavourful, but at least it was food. Merrill's shivering had begun to subside by the time they'd finished eating, and he could feel her relaxing against him as the chill slowly left her body.

"You're as warm as a fire," she said drowsily, rubbing her cheek against his chest as she burrowed closer to him. He blushed, and put his arms cautiously around her as he shifted his weight slightly, trying to find a slightly more comfortable position between the cold stones under him and her weight on top of him.

It was very quiet, the only sounds that of the water, and an occasional odd deep groaning sound that he supposed must be from the glacier itself. She was quiet, her breathing slow and steady for so long that he thought she'd fallen asleep, until she sighed and snuggled closer again, and spoke again.

"_Do_ you think we'll find a way out?"

He thought of the miles of long water-carved tunnels they'd already traversed today. The hidden lake. The sheer size of the glacier. "I don't know," he said reluctantly. "I must trust that we will."

"Trust in your Maker?" she asked.

"No," he said after a thought-filled paused. "Or at least not just in Him. I trust in Hawke's loyalty to his friends. And Carver's sensibility. And in your stubbornness."

"And yourself?" she asked after a moment. "Do you not trust in yourself?"

"Some of the time," he said, and smiled. "Though I also trust that, like any man, I could be wrong."

She laughed at that, and then settled her head more comfortably on his shoulder. This time he could tell when she really went to sleep, all bonelessly limp from exhaustion, and yet surprisingly light in his lap. And after a while, despite everything, he slept too.


	9. Food Porn - Isabela and Jowan

**Square #4 – Food Porn – Isabela/Jowan**

It wasn't hard to guess that he was a mage. Not when he was still wearing the ragged remains of what had clearly been a robe at some point in the past, though right now they were little more than stinking rags that she wouldn't have even scrubbed a deck with, much less thought of as clothing. He had what could only be described as a prison pallor, as well as lank, greasy hair and one of the most heart-breakingly empty expressions she'd ever seen on the face of a grown man. Normally she'd have just had her crew drop the stowaway overboard; not necessarily into the bay, unless he'd done something in particular to earn her ire, but firmly ejected onto the docks at the very least.

She couldn't have said what made her decide not to. Perhaps that he didn't fuss or plead. Perhaps just the sheer numb despair on his face, a look she'd seen in her own mirror once, years ago. As if the world had already failed him so many times, in so many different ways, that he'd entirely given up on hope, and was just resigned to take whatever happened next, be it good or bad.

So she ordered warmed water brought to her cabin to fill her tub, and the man brought as well once he'd been stripped of his rags and given a rough cleaning with buckets of cold salt water and a deck brush. He didn't protest at all, not even when he was ushered into her cabin a short time later, dressed in nothing but a damp pair of shorts contributed by some member of her crew, that hung so loose on his painfully skinny frame that he was having to hold the waistband clutched tight in one hand to preserve whatever was left of his modesty. "Find some rope for a belt," she asked the mate. "And tell cook to send some food," she said, frowning as she counted the mage's ribs. "Something bland," she added. "Invalid food."

"You, into the tub," she said, nodding to where it was steaming gently at one side of the room, soap and wash cloth and scrub brush waiting on a stool beside it. "Get yourself properly clean," she ordered, and then turned her back to give him some privacy while he stripped off the shorts and got in. She waited until she heard the water slosh as he lowered himself into the tub before turning back and taking a seat at the table, the high sides of the hammered copper vessel hiding more than the shorts had.

"What's your name?" she asked curiously.

He cleared his throat nervously before answering, head ducked down and shoulders hunched. "Jowan," he said, voice thin and faint, as if it's been a long time since he last spoke aloud. As if he was afraid to even speak.

"Tower mage?" she asked, and when he hunched even further into the tub, going still, "You don't have the look of an apostate. They generally know how to look after themselves."

"Yes," he admitted, voice still quiet, and resumed washing himself. "Tower raised."

"Why'd you run?" Asked with no particular intensity; she thought he'd answer best if she seemed only mildly interested in his response. As if she didn't really care what he said. And to a certain degree, she didn't; she was curious, but it truly didn't much matter what his answer was.

He hunched again, and when he answered, it was in a low mumble. She only caught part of it, but it was enough to make her freeze for a moment. "Blood magic?"

He turned and looked her way, his face drained and somehow even more hopeless than before. He expected her to react. To be frightened, or angry, to kick him off her ship after all. Or turn him over to the templars. His very fear made her decide against it. Frankly, she'd have felt more frightened of a mouse than of this pale, wide-eyed creature. "Why'd you do it?" she asked instead, and rose, walking over to the tub and settling down beside it, picking up the brush and starting to scrub his back.

And rather to her surprise, he told her, voice thin and wavering and, at times, choked with tears. An old story. One of the oldest, oft-repeated stories. Young man does something stupid, for love, and out of fear. Poor miserable frightened bastard, she thought, and was shocked to realize she felt sorry for him. But then she'd rarely seen anyone who was such a total helpless mess before. Tower raised, she reminded herself. As lost out in the bigger world as some gently-reared noble daughter, except any noble-born lady likely saw far more of the wider world by her tenth year than the mage had seen in his entire life. Poor bastard, she thought again. Didn't know how to live outside of a tower, and, having used blood magic, couldn't return to one either.

Helping him wouldn't be any quick fix, she could tell. And yet... she wanted to. The thought of turning him out now put her uncomfortably in mind of how she'd feel if she dropped a puppy or kitten overboard. Granted this puppy might be rabid and had used its claws at least once on someone else... but there'd been that look on his face, and she remembered what that felt like, from the inside, and how it was only luck, luck and a a passing assassin, that had removed it, in time, from her own face.

Well, she supposed she was stuck with him, at least for now.

* * *

Cook had done reasonably well on the sort of food he'd selected to send; things easy on the digestion, which a half-starved man could eat without too much fear of digestive upset. Bread sops in broth, a fillet of very plainly cooked fish, and a small bowl of a starchy grain-based pudding, without its usual sweetening and spices. Jowan tucked into it all as if it was the finest meal he'd ever eaten, face beaming with obvious pleasure as he spooned up bites of soggy bread.

He had a rather odd face, she found herself thinking. Not unattractive, but not exactly handsome either. Nice enough, at least from certain angles, and then he'd turn his head and she'd see how strangely scrunched up his features were. It wasn't so much that he had a long, narrow face, she thought; that was just an illusion, caused by the way his features were all gathered up toward the middle of it, as if huddling together for safety. It was a nice face, overall, she decided. And an expressive one, emotions fleeting over it and changing it from moment to moment like wind ruffling the surface of a pond. Fear, most often, and when he glanced her way, an odd mix of thankfulness, worry and desire. Desire she was used to seeing; she'd been seeing it on the face of most men and some women since she'd been little more than a child. And she'd become quite good at inspiring fear and worry over the years. The thankfulness was a little more rare, she had to admit. Especially when she'd done so little to actually deserve it.

She stole a finger-full of the pudding, and was amused by the way his eyes widened as he watched her lick it from her finger. "You'll sleep in here tonight," she told him. "I'll make up a pallet for you on the floor," she explained further, as she rose to her feet to do so, further amused by the way his expression went from wide-eyed shock to relief and a hint of disappointment. She wasn't entirely sure why she'd decided to keep him nearby, other than that her crew were the usual superstitious bunch, and might not take well to a mage being put in with them. Anyway, mages didn't scare her; not even blood mages. They died as easily as any man, if you stuck a dagger in the right bit.

He was tired enough to fall asleep almost as soon as he lay down. As most people did, he looked younger, sleeping, all the worry lines temporarily erased from his face. She left him there, fast asleep, to go and have a quiet word with the mate to make sure news of their stowaway didn't reach the wrong ears before they set sail.

* * *

Isabela was pleasantly surprised to find that the mage didn't suffer from sea-sickness at all; he staggered slightly when he first tried to walk the next morning, and then within minutes found his sea-legs and didn't have any further problems. Breakfast was more invalid food for him – gruel, and a boiled egg – while Isabela tucked into her own much more substantial breakfast of bacon, griddle cakes drowning in sweet syrup, crispy browned sausages, and toast spread with soft white cheese and sprinkled with finely chopped onion and flakes of salty smoked fish. She smiled, seeing how wide Jowan's eyes got as he looked at her tasty breakfast and then looked with obvious disappointment at his own much blander meal.

"Get through the morning without any stomach upset and you can have something better for lunch," she told him, and took great enjoyment in eating her own breakfast while ignoring the puppy-eyed looks he kept giving her. Though she couldn't resist making rather a show of licking her lips and fingers, and making little humming noises of pleasure as she ate.

Jowan, she was pleased to see, realized partway through the meal that she was teasing him, and grinned, taking deep appreciative sniffs of her food in between bites of his own. "I'll just have to try and pretend my breakfast tastes as good as yours smells," he said in a long-suffering tone of voice that made her grin.

She spent some time up on deck that morning after eating, seeing to it that her crew was working well and with reasonably good morale, but once she was satisfied with that, she returned to her cabin. Most of the remainder of the morning was spent in talking to Jowan, drawing further details of his history out of him. She was pleased to learn that he was a healer; those were always in short supply. And far more useful to her than the sort of mage who might set the sails on fire and coat the hull with ice.

They ate lunch together in her cabin, Isabela dining on a thick seafood chowder and crusty fresh-baked rolls dripping with garlic butter, while Jowan had more bread sops in broth, though it was the broth from the chowder this time. And there was dessert for both of them, dried pears stewed with sweetening and spices until plump and flavourful. The blissful expression on Jowan's face as he ate his own small serving of it made her smile.

She took him up on deck, afterwards, and told off one of the sailors to teach him how to handle himself on shipboard, which mostly involved keeping an eye on what the crew were up to and getting smartly out of their way. He looked even paler in the sunlight than he had in her cabin, white as a fish's belly, whiter even than the sun-faded canvas shorts he was wearing.

"He'll burn," the mate said to her, frowning slightly.

"So find him a shirt, then," she told him, and a while later looked up from her own work to see that someone had. As small and skinny as Jowan was it hung loosely on him, half-off one shoulder and hanging further down than the shorts did, giving him a look rather like a child trying to dress up in his father's clothes. He had the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and was struggling with a bit of rope in his lap while one of the crew, seated nearby, did a bit of fancy knotwork as easily as breathing.

They ate supper on deck with the crew, sitting around on coils of rope and equipment lockers and the hatch cover, tin plates of fish stew balanced in their laps. It was only mildly spiced, compared to some of cook's efforts, but Jowan still choked and turned alarming shades on the first bite, and had to gulp down some ale, which of course only made it worse. But one of the crew took pity on him before she had to say anything, passing the poor man a slice of bread and dripping to quell the spicy burn. And Jowan took their humour at his expense without anger, merely smiling and eating his stew more carefully, taking additional bites of the bread when the burn got to be too much for him.

"We didn't have anything like that in the tower," he told her afterwards. "Lots of fish, yes, but nothing that burnt the mouth like that."

"I suppose I should warn you then, if you're not used to spicy food it can take a while to get used to them. Not just eating them but, errr... the other end of things as well."

"Oh," he said worriedly, and she patted his arm.

"Don't worry, just don't be surprised, is all I'm saying."

* * *

He remained on the floor in her room. The crew was being at least cautiously friendly with him, but she still didn't think that putting a mage in with them would be a good idea. He managed to get himself rather spectacularly sunburnt even with the shirt, and scratched a lot and peeled in sheets. Then almost overnight his body seemed to get the hang of tanning, and he went from ghost-pale to a warm golden brown by the time they'd reached their next port.

"Don't go ashore here," she warned him. "They like mages here even less than they do in Ferelden."

She brought him back treats from the market, slabs of a spiced sweet cake that she thought he'd like, and Cook, with access to fresh vegetables, made a stew of lamb and little artichokes for supper. He'd clearly never seen artichokes before and eyed the prickly-looking vegetable warily before cautiously breaking a bit loose with the edge of his spoon and trying it. And then dug in, face lit up with enjoyment, scraping his plate clean. She liked watching him eat; his face was always expressive, but the expressions of astonishment and enjoyment he made while eating were especially endearing, somehow.

She wasn't the only one to have noticed, either. The crew would smile and nudge each other and watch closely any time Jowan was trying a new dish. Cook would sometimes lurk in the doorway of the galley, peering out to see what this strange new crew member thought of his food, then grin his gape-toothed smile and disappear back into his smokey domain, looking pleased. As little entertainment as they usually had available at sea, Isabela certainly saw no reason to object to this comparatively harmless one. Especially when it meant that Cook made even more of an effort than he usually did with their meals. They'd already eaten well – she'd always felt a good cook was worth his weight in gold, for the effect it had on crew morale, and spent well to keep a talented one on hand and well-supplied – and now they ate even better.

Stews and soups, roasts and casseroles. Little flakey pastries, sometimes sweet and sometimes spicy. Sweet crisp cookies, and pies and cobblers, cakes, custards, puddings of all kinds. Jowan's eyes going wide with pleased astonishment as he licked crumbs from his lips. Or his eyes half-shut and him making a dreamy hum of pleasure, hand curled loosely around the handle of a spoon held forgotten in his mouth as he enjoyed the flavour of what the spoon had carried.

He lost the half-starved look and filled in, going from gaunt to wiry, his learning to work the ship like the crew did doing him at least as much good as all the food did. He'd never be a large man, even well fed he barely put on any weight at all, but at least he looked healthy now. And the crew considered him lucky; it had been a good voyage ever since he'd joined the ship, the wind usually with them, the weather never too bad, the trading good. And the one time someone had slipped and injured themselves, Jowan was there and had the nasty gash healed cleanly shut before anyone could do much more than hiss over the ugliness of the cut.

When they reached new ports he went ashore now, accompanying some of her crew, looking like just a sailor among sailors, no sign that he was a mage about him. A resemblance only furthered when he came back late one night smelling of the sweet spice-flavoured liquors that were a chief export of this tiny Antivan port, with a rose tattooed on his shoulder.

"Why a rose?" she asked him, as she helped him to his pallet, his sea-legs having deserted him because of his drunkenness.

"They said I should 'ave a ma... mab... mabari, 'cause I'm Fereldan," he managed to slur his way through saying. "Dog-lords, you know. Any, any, anyway, I shaid _no_. No dogs for me."

"But why a rose?"

"Becaush of the _thorns_," he exclaimed, as if that explained it all, and then gave her a very sudden and enthusiastic kiss, all sloppy tongue and tasting of caraway-flavoured liquor, rather like being licked by a puppy but nicer. "I _like_ you," he said, very sincerely, and then was out like a light, head tilted back and snoring loudly.

She snorted, and smiled, and turned him on one side both to stop the snoring and to be reasonably certain that if he sicked up during the night he wouldn't choke on it. And smiled, as she crawled into her own bed, and looked at him sprawled out on the floor nearby. "I suppose I like you too," she admitted, then rolled over and went to sleep herself.

* * *

He was hung over the next day, of course, and sat at the table with his head in his hands, moaning and looking more than a little green around the gills.

"Can't you do something about a hangover?" she asked, and twiddled her fingers to illustrate what she meant.

"I wish. No. There isn't really anything to heal. Mages are like any other man when it comes to getting stupidly drunk; we have to live with the consequences too," he said hoarsely.

She laughed – not unkindly – and summoned the cabin boy, then sent him running off to Cook for some remedy. She didn't know what-all Cook put in it; it was black as tar and only somewhat less thick, with a sulphury smell and a bitter herbal flavour, but it at least got rid of the greenness and the worst of the headache, she knew from prior experience.

Jowan made a horrible expression as he sampled the drink, then his face set and he forced himself to drink it all before putting his head in his hands again for a while. He was looking halfway human again by the time breakfast arrived, bland invalid food again; a boiled egg, a small bowl of plain porridge. He dropped his hands and picked up his spoon, stirring the porridge and looking at it as if he wasn't sure about eating it, then winced. "Ow, what did I do to my arm," he said, and lifted it, turning his head to peer at his shoulders, eyes widening as he saw the tattoo. It was at the ugly weeping crusty stage, all puffy and red and angry-looking. "Oh," he said, and frowned. "I got a tattoo?"

"Yes, you got a tattoo," Isabela agreed.

"Why? And why a _rose?_" he asked, sounding perplexed.

Isabela laughed. "Don't ask me, I wasn't there, and you were too many sheets to the wind to explain it to me when you got back last night. All you could say was something about the thorns."

"Huh," he said, sounding as perplexed by that as she'd been, then he ran one hand over it, a faint crackle of magic in the air as he did so. The skin was healed when he took his hand away, the tattoo looking like it had been done weeks ago instead of mere hours.

"_That's_ a useful trick," she said approvingly.

He snorted, then took a cautious spoonful of his porridge, after which he slowly and stoically ate his way through breakfast.

She took him with her when she went out to arrange some cargo that afternoon, cases of the same liquors he'd been out drinking with the crew the night before, flavoured with caraway, cumin, aniseed, ginger, hot peppers, cloves or nutmeg. "We've a few new herbals and florals ones we think might do well," the factor told her, and poured tiny thimble-sized glasses full of the sweet liquors, sticky as syrup and tasting of mint, of chamomile, of roses, of jasmine.

The jasmine was like trying to drink perfume, but she suspected it would do well in Orlais, and took a few cases anyway, and even more of the others.

They walked through the marketplace together afterwards, sampling the different foods at the numerous vendor stands. Shrimp from the bay, coated in egg and crumbs and fried in oil until crispy, still hot from frying. Whole oysters in half-shells, at a stall where you could add any of a variety of condiments to them before slurping them down whole. Jowan choked and made an odd expression trying to get down the first one, and then got the hang of it, and had three more before they moved on. Puffy golden pastries shaped like flowers, made by dipping a special iron mold in batter and then into sizzling hot oil, drizzled with sweet fruit syrups. Fish, battered and fried, or smoked, or cooked into chowder. Meat on skewers, ranging from some mouth-searingly hot mutton to some kind of poultry – chicken, she thought – marinated with lemon juice and lashings of freshly ground pepper before being grilled. One of her own favourites, beef sliced almost paper thin, and wrapped around lightly sauteed chopped green onions and garlic and then quickly seared, with a tangy sauce to dip them in. His fingers were greasy and speckled with sauce after he'd finished his share, and she took his hand in his, pulling it up to where she could lick them clean, smiling as his eyes widened almost comically in response.

She took him to an inn she knew, afterwards, with a big wide bed and crisp white sheets, and made love to him, his astonished expressions in bed as delightful to her as his reactions to strange new foods. This, too, was a strange new thing to him, she could see, and enjoyed watching emotions flit across his face. He was so _open_ with his feelings, even after all he'd been through; she envied him that, just a little.

"I won't ever do this on board ship," she warned him as they lay curled up together in bed afterwards, feeding each other fresh cherries and trying not to stain the sheets with the juice and failing. "It's bad for morale."

He nodded, accepting, and they spent the rest of the day there, and the night, with supper brought up to them, finger-foods to eat together in bed, and then more sex, with crumbs in the sheets and laughter.

* * *

Jowan never pushed, on board, not like some lovers she'd taken, just quietly slept on the pallet each night, and kept his hands to himself. But now he always went ashore with her in each new port, rather than with her sailors, and she enjoyed his company, enjoyed watching the shy frightened man turn transforming into someone confident and smiling.

They returned to Ferelden eventually, of course. She knew even before they reached port that he was going to leave her. It was dangerous for him there, but he was an apostate mage – _everywhere_ was dangerous to him, really.

"I have things to make up for," he'd said, simply and quietly, and knowing his history now as she did, she hugged him, then broke her own rules and took him to her bed, there on board on that last night before they reached port. He left them right after they docked the next morning, a kit-bag slung over his shoulder, holding his few clothes, souvenirs of the ports they'd visited, a bottle of pepper liquor from her and gifts from the crew and a tin full of baking from Cook. He looked much like any sailor going ashore, tanned and tattooed and muscled, a long knife stuck in one side of his rope belt. He stopped partway along the dock, turning back to lift a hand in farewell to her and them all, a final flash of a broad white smile before he turned and walked away, out of her life and into whatever his own held for him afterwards.

She sailed away, a few days later, not without at least a few regrets.

And maybe they'd been right that he was the ship's luck, because it wasn't long after that until she found herself without crew, without ship, marooned in a city that hated mages even more than they did in Ferelden. But that was a different story, not his.


	10. Accidental Marriage - Sebastian Fenris

**Square #22 – Accidental Marriage – Sebastian/Fenris**

They largely went their separate ways, after Kirkwall. Hawke with Merrill, Isabela with her ship, Varric and Aveline remaining behind in Kirkwall. Doubtless they'd see to it that something appropriate was done with the apostate's body.

Carver was heading south, he said, returning to Ferelden and his place among the Grey Wardens there.

"I am going with him," Fenris said, firmly, in that way that said his mind was made up and could not be changed. "The farther away I am from Tevinter, the better."

Sebastian nodded wordlessly. He had given up on the idea of retaking Starkhaven, deciding somewhere in the blood and mayhem of that final day in Kirkwall that war was not something he wished on any people, and particularly on people who might have been his. "I will come with you," he said, voice still rough and hoarse from breathing smoke and dust, from screaming. "If I may."

Fenris said nothing, just nodded his head slightly, one corner of his mouth turning upwards the merest fraction of an inch. Sebastian had, in their years of friendship, learned to watch for such signs, to read them, and felt some tightness in himself uncoil just slightly at even that small a sign from the elf that his company was still welcome. That their friendship was still unbroken.

Isabela took the three of them south, Fenris sharing her cabin for the few days of trip, across to Highever and then tacking eastwards along the coast to Amaranthine. Carver and Sebastian shared a tiny room usually used for the more delicate cargo, just barely large enough for two hammocks strong one above the other, their belongings – what little they had, a small bundle for Carver, a larger pack for Sebastian – occupying the floor space underneath.

Amaranthine was larger and more prosperous than Sebastian had expected, Vigil's Keep smaller and more primitive. The Hero of Ferelden was different than he'd expected, too – he'd heard of Timorn Surana's red-brown hair, her blue-green eyes, and the long vertical ridge of scar that marred one side of her face, souvenir of her near-death when fighting the Archdemon atop Fort Drakon. He hadn't heard of how small she was, or of how brightly and frequently she smiled. A surprising number of those smiles directed at Carver, who seemed a far different person among the wardens than he ever had around his brother and his brother's friends. Far more assured, for one thing; his own man, as he had never managed to be when merely part of his brother's retinue.

Timorn allowed Fenris and Sebastian to stay on at the keep, at Carver's request, neither of them sure if they wanted to become a Grey Warden or not themselves, but both of them admiring the wardens greatly, and willing to put their martial skills in their service until they either decided to stay, or moved on. They had separate rooms, in the half-empty keep, and the pattern of their days soon fell into their old routine, Sebastian visiting Fenris at least briefly every day or two, the two of them sharing talk and food and wine and friendship, but nothing else. Never anything more.

Things might have remained that way forever, the two settling in even more comfortably, perhaps undergoing the Joining eventually, becoming full Grey Wardens themselves instead of just auxiliaries to them, the pattern of their days and their friendship unchanging. But chance intervened; Timorn invited them along with her, on a trip she was making into the far south, to recruit among the Chasind barbarians.

* * *

It had been a good trip. The Chasind had perhaps even more reason to remember the darkspawn than the northerners did, much of their lands having been badly blighted by the creatures' presence. It would be centuries before some of their hunting ranges recovered, if ever; they'd had to burn off vast tracts of land, kill most of their few domesticated animals, to end the spread of Blight-sickness that might otherwise have wiped them out entirely. They eked out a poor existence on the lands remaining to them, clinging fiercely to their way of life.

It did not help that there'd been a drought this year, a bad one, desiccating much of what forest and field remained. But they saw the coming of the Grey Wardens into the south as a hopeful sign, and several of their best young warriors had volunteered to join. And mostly survived, to Timorn's delight. She theorized that their exposure to the blighted lands might have hardened them somehow against the taint, making them more likely to survive it, and meant to do research to see if recruits from other blighted areas of Thedas displayed the same higher rate of survival.

There was to be a celebration, before the Grey Wardens old and new set off back north again; a high honour, the group of them invited to take part in one of the Chasinds' more cherished rituals. A feast, a dance, a night of revelry, meant to call back the missing rains and restore fertility to the drought-stricken lands. The Chasind felt that including the Grey Wardens in their ritual might even have beneficial effects on the blighted lands, if the rains did come, so she could hardly tell them _no_. Besides, it was a rare chance – the Chasind almost never allowed outsiders to see their ceremonies, much less partake in them.

* * *

Drink flowed freely that night, a wine-like drink the Chasind fermented out of honey, flavoured with wild berries. It was sweeter than Fenris liked, so he drank only a little of it, but Sebastian liked the flavours the different berries gave it, and kept trying different kinds; flavoured with blueberries, with bunchberries, with juniper and chokecherries.

They sat together, watching the dancing. Many of the dances had special meanings, they had been told, and some were only allowed to be danced by the men, and some were women's dances. There was a dance done by children at one point, in the course of which they built a long pile of wood across the middle of the dancing ground, and then a dance where half the dancers tried to defend the pile, while the other half tried to steal sticks of wood away. Then a dance of elders, who restored any stolen sticks back to the pile, and lit it, at the end.

There was storytelling after that, groups of Chasind acting out tribal legends, some as old as the tribes themselves, some newer tales, including one of the Blight Year, acted out with the aid of elaborate masks. All the actors who were 'dead' at the end of it were picked up and tossed across the fire afterwards to symbolize the great burning that had followed, the darkspawn masks ceremoniously stripped off and burnt.

The fire was down to embers when a final dance started, led by a young couple, dressed in long cloaks woven of grass that made them resemble mobile haystacks, with headdresses of green leaves. They would dance to the very edge of the fire, around it, and then away again, while the tribe sang a very long and complicated song in their own tongue. A sad song, one of mourning.

"It's about the drought," Fenris said, abruptly sitting up straighter, surprising himself with his sudden understanding of the story being acted out. "Look how the fire is drying out their costumes."

"They'll be on fire soon if they keep that up," Sebastian agreed, frowning as he saw how the cloaks were smoking a little from the nearness of the heat as the two danced again along the very edge of the fire, feet thudding against dirt just inches from the glowing coals, before retreating again.

On their next pass a log popped, sap spitting to steam, and sparks flew. Grasses flamed into sudden fire. The couple dashed a few steps away from the fire, then to Sebastian and Fenris' astonishment ran back towards it, fingers working at the fastenings of their cloaks as they ran. They leapt together over the bonfire, flames roaring up behind them as their cloaks fell free onto the coals, and were eaten by hungry flame. The pair, almost naked now save for their headdresses, grinned as the crowd exploded into happy cries, and then disappeared into the darkness together, hand in hand.

The song resumed, the music of it happier now, hopeful in some way that it hadn't been before. After a short pause a second couple came out into the fire-lit area, not costumed, a girl pulling a boy by the hand, the boy looking self-conscious and blushing. Hoots and catcalls rose up, and the boy's flush darkened, then he grabbed the girl's other hand and they danced a few steps together before leaping the fire as well and running off into the darkness. The third couple was older, and with them it was the woman who seemed reluctant, until the man spoke softly to her, and then her chin rose and she grabbed his hands, and they danced and jumped as well. Then a pair of women came forward, which brought a loud excited outburst from the watching tribesmen, and the song surged even louder and happier than before, the sound after they'd jumped almost deafening.

Another couple, white-haired and slow-moving, came forward next, and the singing became very sweet and tender. It seemed as if everyone held their breath for a moment as the couple jumped the fire, but they cleared it, the man staggering slightly on landing but quickly steadied by the woman, and happy sounding words were called after them as they too went off into the darkness. The song resumed, quieter now, almost questioning.

It was beginning to fade away, voices dropping out one by one, when a unexpected couple came forward. Timorn and Carver, Timorn looking happy, Carver's chin set stubbornly and cheeks flushed with colour, but eyes glowing with joy when he looked at Timorn. He leaned down and whispered something to her as the music surged loudly again, startled voices joining back in. She laughed, and took his hands, cheers and cat-calls sounding as they danced briefly together, then jumped the bonfire as well. The shouting that followed was thunderous, everyone rising to their feet to stomp their feet and clap their hands in approval, Timorn and Carver grinning and taking a bow instead of running off right away.

"Come on!" exclaimed Sebastian suddenly, grabbing Fenris' hand and pulling him forward. "Let's jump too!"

Fenris tried to protest, but his words were drowned out by the even louder calls and ululations that met their appearance by the fire. He frowned at Sebastian, then rolled his eyes as he realized the futility of trying to stop things now, and instead let Sebastian grasp his hands. They danced a few steps together, Sebastian enthusiastically and Fenris feeling stiff and clumsy in comparison, it not being a skill he'd ever learned. But Sebastian's grin was infectious, and he smiled back before they turned and leapt the bonfire.

Timorn and Carver were still there, both looking surprised. Timorn said something, her words inaudible over the explosive shouting of the watching Chasind, but the jerk of her head before she and Carver ran off was clear; Fenris and Sebastian followed after her.

"Andraste's arse, what did you two think you were _doing!_" Carver exclaimed as soon as they'd moved far enough from the raucous gathering that words could be heard.

What do you mean?" Sebastian asked, sounding bewildered by Carver's reaction.

"I don't think they knew at all what they were doing," Timorn said grimly, touching Carver's arm lightly, then looked back and forth between Fenris and Sebastian, expression serious. "Congratulations. You two are now married."

"What!" Fenris and Sebastian exclaimed.

"There's no time for explanations; this is a very serious ceremony for the Chasind. We'll have to sort things out properly later, _after_ we're back in the north. But for tonight, you two are going to have to at least pretend you did that on purpose, and share a room together in the ceremonial lodge. If you can manage a little heated moaning, all to the better. And then act like a married couple until we leave. Otherwise the Chasind are likely to think you two purposefully spoiled their ceremony, and if the rains don't come, they will blame us for it, and be quite angry about it. Do you understand?" she said sharply, every inch the Warden-Commander in that moment.

"Yes, commander," Sebastian said humbly, looking ashen-faced and very abruptly sober as he realized what danger his impulsive decision had brought them all into.

"Then follow us. Say and do nothing to make it obvious that this was an accident. And _smile_," she said, then suited actions to words, glancing at Carver and smiling warmly at him, her hand tightening on his.

They led the way back to the Chasind village, and to a large lodge there. A few elders sat around the doorway of it, and judging by the evidence of plates and cups had been there some time. They smiled and rose as the two couples approached, and in broken common expressed their delight at the guests having taken part in their ceremony, especially pleased that a long-Chasind-word couple had rounded off the extra luck brought on the ceremony by the joining of the earlier longer-Chasind-word couple, and surely after this the rains would come and the fertility of the lands return.

They were then each led off by a separate elder, Timorn taken off in one direction, the three men in another. "Preparation for your wedding night," Carver had time to tell the two, before their guides showed them into separate rooms.

Fenris felt uneasy, being separated from those he knew, and relaxed not at all when he saw by the room's contents that he was expected to bathe and change. If he'd dared to protest, he would have, but instead he forced himself to smile, and submitted to being helped into a bath by his elderly guide.

* * *

The hot bath cleared any lingering effects of drinking that Sebastian still had after the sobering effect of Timorn's words. It was a much-chastened and entirely sober man who was shown into a bedroom some while later, freshly bathed and dressed in a beautifully sewn robe. He wasn't sure what the fabric was; linen as a base, he suspected, with some other plant fibre in the thread that gave it a gloss and softness that linen by itself would not have had, the robe heavily embroidered and trimmed with fur.

Fenris was there before him, he saw, sitting on a wide, low bed dressed in a matching robe, looking oddly vulnerable without his armour, his arms wrapped around his uplifted knees. He glanced up as Sebastian entered, their eyes briefly meeting, then looked away again, looking as unnerved as Sebastian felt. "They have given us some wine and food," he said, gesturing at a tray sitting on the floor by the bed.

"I think I have already had too much to drink tonight," Sebastian said quietly, and stood by the door, hands flexing and feeling entirely uncertain as to what to do. He swallowed. "I am sorry."

Fenris glanced at him again, a quick, side-long look, then lowered his head, staring down at his own toes. "It is all right," Fenris said, voice very quiet and flat. "It does not matter."

Sebastian drew a breath. "It should. It should matter greatly," he said, voice barely above a whisper. Fenris gave him a startled look, then frowned slightly, looking puzzled. Sebastian walked forward, then lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, studying Fenris' face as the elf looked questioningly at him, then turned away again, cheeks flushing.

"I have always..." Sebastian began, and broke off, biting his lip.

Another side-long look from Fenris. "You have always what?"

He sighed, and looked away himself, unable to meet Fenris' eyes. "I have always been... _content_, in our friendship. In Kirkwall I had my vows, and you preferred your solitude, and when you did not, you had Isabela." He glanced at Fenris to see how his words were being received, and coloured a little to find Fenris watching him closely, his brow just faintly wrinkled. "I would be lying if I did not say there were times even then when I wished things might be different between us. But our friendship was enough. And after we left Kirkwall..." he fell silent again.

"After we left Kirkwall, having lost so much else already, you did not want to risk breaking it," Fenris said softly, and then, after a pause. "No more than I did."

"_Yes_," Sebastian agreed, the word barely breathed as blue eyes met green eyes, and studied each other guardedly.

It was Fenris who moved first, Sebastian holding his breath as the elf slid closer, to sit hip-to-hip facing him. Fenris leaned forward, eyes searching Sebastian's face, as if searching for some sign, as if Sebastian's face was a book with a word that puzzled him, its meaning not quite clear. "And now?" he asked.

"When Timorn said we were married, for just a moment, I was very happy. And now I think I may have been a fool not to have said or done anything earlier, to let you know that I... that I often wished _more_ than merely friendship.."

Fenris' lips twitched into a smile. "Then I was equally a fool," he said, and shifted slightly, his hand coming to rest on top of Sebastian's.

Sebastian smiled, and linked his fingers with Fenris'. "It would seem we are going about this entirely the wrong way. Marriage first, and then affection."

Fenris lifted an eyebrow. "As a noble, is that not the way it most likely would have been? An arranged marriage to start things off?"

Sebastian shrugged. "I suppose. It is the way my parents married. My eldest brother married after I left Starkhaven; I do not know if it was for love, or for..."

"Shut up," Fenris said. "You talk too much when you are nervous," he pointed out, then smiled, and leaned forward, eyes half-shutting as he did so.

Sebastian smiled as well, and let his own eyes close entirely as lips touched his, warm and a little dry, and oh, so very long-desired a kiss.

* * *

"Rain," said Timorn, and sighed, frowning slightly at the rain falling heavily outside the open door. "Well, that will at least make our allies happy, though it may delay our departure," she said.

Carver smiled, sliding his arm around her waist. "I don't think those two are going to complain any," he said, and nodded across the fire, to where Sebastian and Fenris were seated side by side, leaning together over their shared breakfast, and with eyes only for each other.

Timorn smiled, and leaned against Carver. "Come to that, I don't think I'm going to complain about a few more days of rest either," she said contentedly.


End file.
